


Is It Not Monstrous?

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [21]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1986, Azkaban, Dementors (Harry Potter) - Freeform, Grief/Mourning, Insanity, M/M, Marauders' Era, Post-First War with Voldemort, Post-Hogwarts, Sirius in Azkaban, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how it goes, it goes like this—</p><p>Sirius is trapped by walls and memories alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is It Not Monstrous?

**Author's Note:**

> Week 21
> 
> Title from Hamlet's soliloquy (Act II Scene II)

This is how it goes, it goes like this—

Sirius knows by now, five years in, having not lost count of the days even once in this foggy blindness. The guard changes, and the Dementors are hungry. They rattle closer to his door and he fights.

His head bumps up against the wall. "I'm going to die," he moans. He's fighting.

At least, he's trying.

Is that his mother outside the door? He can hear her yelling at him as usual— _Who the hell do you think you are? A mudblood? A filthy muggle?_ —and banging on the door. Sirius shrinks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Lies. He is Sirius Black, lying is what he does best. He clamps his hands over his ears to block out his mother. "Not listening." But he is. _Despicable,_ she hisses. _Get out._ Sirius's eyes fly open and he finds himself pressed against the window, a familiar position. One arm is miraculously stretched through the metal bars—miraculously, but pointlessly. He yanks it back in, bruising his wrist. Still not listening.

Then she's gone, and he could cry with relief. He must have escaped somehow. Except, no, there are the four dirty walls and the hard cot and the empty bowl from his last meal. It's all Sirius can do not to shove his arm back out of the window, although what he'd reach is a mystery. He'd need help to do anything. And for help, he'd need friends. And speaking of friends—

 _Padfoot, open up!_ Dead.

 _Can't you at least tell us what happened?_ Dead.

 _He's angry about something._ Ought to be dead.

Sirius isn't entirely sure what this memory is doing here, because he hates his brother. He'll swear up and down, cross his heart, put needles in his eyes. What is he swearing again? Better put the needles in anyways, just for good measure.

 _Sirius, please, come on. We're all worried._ Her red hair over the carpet, her hand upturned like an offering—

He kicks out and this time it's his foot that's bruised, or maybe broken. It hurts. Stone walls are _hard._ And none of his anger goes away, intensifying instead, a potion bubbling over—he clutches his own hair and yanks because he has to do _something._ He can hear them just outside, whispering. About him. Wondering if he's all right, no doubt, and he can't tell them the truth because he's a liar and because he never talks about his family. Mostly just because they're dead.

If he had a wand—a wand, and some firewhiskey would be nice too—he would set another desk on fire, embed another letter-opener in the wall. And if he had a wand he would _kill_ Peter.

Just for a moment, the memory recedes. Sirius follows his backwards momentum to fetch up against the cot, his legs folding beneath him. And then the third wave drags him under.

It's Remus this time, that maddening logical voice. _Godric's Hollow isn't a bad spot._

Sirius remembers what came next, a stupid joke about house arrest—well, the joke's on him. It is a little funny. He doesn't smile. "Can you believe it?" he asks instead, and he's talking to walls but also to himself, five years ago, in a tiny cottage while the leaves swirled outside. "How can anyone want to kill a baby?"

He remembers Peter, holding Harry—his face calm, a big smile on his lips—he remembers Peter shaking a rattle, giving the mobile a spin—he remembers how they loved that little boy—he remembers Lily crying and James trying not to as they heard—as they heard—and he gasps out "Moony," a shaky thing.

Remus isn't outside the door. Remus is beside him on this rock of a bed, staring at the ceiling. _What's wrong?_

"Nothing's wrong." Another lie. "They made me Secret Keeper." Oh, and that's the biggest one of all. Sirius feels gutted. "I'm sorry!" he says, and says it louder. "I'm sorry, Remus! Forgive me!"

The dementors shift, sated. Sirius trembles on the cot and cries. The clanking and the screams and the crashing waves mingle—

This is how it goes, it goes like this—and on and on again.


End file.
